


Now With More Cowbell

by novembersmith



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/pseuds/novembersmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermes - trickster god first and foremost, the patron saint of robbers and thieves, of conmen and rockstars. He’ll go to bat for you if you make him laugh or if he likes your style, or if you have an offering that tickles his fancy (he’s fond of stuffed animals, cigarettes, and ugly puppies, just as an FYI).</p><p>One of his godly duties is to guide souls to the underworld, lead them into their personal version of the afterlife, though maybe some people he doesn’t like get lost along the way. He's not too great with messages, either, to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now With More Cowbell

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago as part of an app for a Mythology-based RPG. I still like it, and brimtoast nudged me into posting it. Basically, the premise is this: Hermes is a trickster god and a psychopomp. His mortal guise? Frank Iero.

“Sweet tats,” the girl calls out to him, and Frank grins at her, signals the bartender to bring another beer. Anora’s not long for this world, and he might as well get her a drink before she goes. Besides, she’s got a pretty fucking sweet tattoo herself: an eagle of Ra across her collarbones, outstretched wings just barely grazing the curve of her breasts. Not his bag, obviously, but he likes the classics, and the girl’s got style. Hot, too, all curves, and he digs the shaved head. Not many people could pull that off, but she totally does.

Pity about that heart condition.

“Damn fucking straight,” he tells her, and slides the bottle across the bar towards her. Her eyes turn into crescents as she smiles at him and takes a long swig. “Yours aren’t so bad either,” he continues. “I think I recognize the work – Bast over in Greenwich Village, right?”

“Right,” she says, looking a bit startled, and then she brightens again. “You go to her too?” He raises a non-committal shoulder, but she’s already rattling on, sounding a bit nervous and excited. It’s kinda cute, and besides, he can’t blame her. He _is_ the frontman for a band, after all, and a Greek god to boot. “Oh man, I have this great plan for my next one, too – she’s got it all drawn out for me, right? I’m gonna get it on my ribs, the Nile River. Delta and the pyramids and everything, with crocodiles and reeds and shit. Cool, right?”

Aww, kiddo. No new tats for you, he thinks, shaking his head and grinning at her. It’s a great idea, though – maybe he’ll go over to Bast after this show, get that one in Anora’s stead. He can always use another tattoo. But all he says is, “Yeah, listen, I gotta get back onstage. Enjoy this next set, alright?”

Anora’ll only make it through the first couple songs. Frank thinks he’ll try to make them really fucking good ones – the kid deserves a good send-off, he likes her – before Hermes wanders off stage and takes her hand and leads her down, down, down to the dark and the deep and the realm of the dead. Eh, that’s life. He fumbles out a pack of cigarettes and is searching through his pockets for a lighter when a flame appears in front of him. He glances up.

“Let me,” she offers, smiling, and Frank raises an eyebrow, then smiles back. Well, hey. A light given and received. Not a bad offering, all told. And what the hell – he can shake things up, buy her a year or two. She’s a good kid. And the Fates still owe him one for that bottle of Madeira, after all. He inhales and nods to her, bargain struck. Why the fuck not, right? What’s the point of being a fucking god if you can’t muck with the stuff of the cosmos now and again? He laughs to himself – man, Hades is going to pitch such a bitchfit over this one – and downs the rest of his beer.

Enough playing around, anyway. It’s showtime.


End file.
